


by the time you wake i’ll be brave

by bluemooned



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, coping but make it scotland, just trying to get through it all u know how it is, post-159, pre-160, safehouse fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemooned/pseuds/bluemooned
Summary: “It feels like we should be saying hello.”Martin waves. “Hi. Nice to meet you. Thanks for, um, saving me from a force of unknowable evil.”Jon lifts his head to look at Martin. He drinks him in. It hurts, because it feels impossible. He is realizing more with each second how bad he wants for this to be real: Martin’s faded green coat, the little mole under his left eye, his windswept hair. After more than a year of absence, of heads down in the corridors, tense exchanges where too much was said in nothing, this is like the first day after a famine.“Hello, Martin.” Jon exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “It’s good to see you again.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 39
Kudos: 247





	by the time you wake i’ll be brave

**Author's Note:**

> yes another post-159 fic for the pile! i am fallible! 
> 
> i'm not from the uk (honestly not sure if it’s entirely real after seeing some of these place names) so if i missed the mark with any terms or details please let me know, as well as with any canon-related things. title from “i will” by mitski, a jonmartin slowburn banger for the ages.
> 
> sections based on “the way you said i love you” prompts from [this great list. ](https://moonblued.tumblr.com/post/145949270996/the-way-you-said-i-love-you)

**1\. as a hello**

It’s a long walk out.

They’re holding hands. Jon tells himself it’s out of necessity—he’s not losing Martin again, this soon after finally finding him—but still he lingers on the way it feels: their joined palms, the fingers brushing lightly over his knuckles. In the expanse of white and wind and salt, it grounds him. 

Jon doesn’t want to ask any unnecessary questions for fear of the Beholding taking hold, and for fear of pushing things in general, so they walk in silence. He tries to focus on what’s ahead of them, but it’s difficult to make any sense of it. Their footsteps fall without sound and it’s neither cold nor warm, just a faceless in-between. 

After what could be hours or days or months, Jon sees something. A glassy surface, faraway, just emerging out of the fog. 

Martin tugs on his hand. “Is that—?”

“Looks like it.” Jon squeezes Martin’s hand tighter. “We’re almost there.”

It doesn’t feel like a victory when their surroundings become clear again and they find themselves in front of Stratford. It’s night, and the streetlamps cast eerie reflections in the huge glass walls of the station. There’s some stragglers, but it seems to be late enough that it’s nearly deserted. Jon can still feel the strange namelessness of the Lonely sticking to his skin, a prickling unease needling him all over. His mind runs over the large swathes of time Martin had spent vanishing to that place. Keeping them—keeping him—safe.

 _No,_ Jon thinks. _He’s strong. Stronger than I’ve given him credit for in the past. I need to believe he will be okay. We can be okay. And I’m never going to let him hurt himself for me again._

“Guess we’re taking the midnight train going anywhere,” Martin says.

Jon gives a quiet huff of laughter. “Never thought I’d be relieved to be in front of this monstrosity of a building again.”

“Not up to your Gothic sensibilities?” 

Jon grimaces. “After Smirke and that lot, I’ve had enough of old buildings to last several lifetimes.” And then Jon knows they’re both thinking about the Panopticon, the before and after, that wink and: gone.

“Jon?” Martin says his name so softly that it tightens his chest beyond description.

“Yes?” 

“Are you alright?”

  
“I’m fine. Please, don’t worry about me,” Jon says. He hesitates. “The Eye’s likely satiated with Lukas, at any rate.” 

“Jon—”

“Are you...are _you_ okay?” 

Martin pauses. “I-I really don’t think I can answer that right now.” He doesn’t meet Jon’s eyes. He plays with the hem of his jumper. It’s the yellow one, the one Jon likes the most. It reminds him of sunflowers, chamomile—good things, things that really shouldn’t belong in his life anymore. “Being cast into a fear dimension, it’s not something I’m ready to—summarize.” 

Jon’s heart sticks in his throat. “Right. _Right._ Of course. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Martin says. 

They just stand there for a couple moments, trying to come to terms with the fact that they’re in the world again. Jon looks down. There, his scuffed trainers. There, Jude Perry’s scar. There, Martin’s hand, his hand, clammy but stubbornly together. It could be the only thing in the universe for all he cares. It’s never truly quiet in the city, but tonight everything feels muffled. The sounds of wheels on asphalt, stray voices and laughter are all far away. Jon’s head is ringing a bit.

“It feels like the first I’ve seen you in a long time,” he says at last, breaking the silence. “Well. I suppose, it is.”

Martin chews on his lip. “Yeah.”

“It feels like we should be saying hello.” 

Martin waves. “Hi. Nice to meet you. Thanks for, um, saving me from a force of unknowable evil.”

Jon lifts his head to look at Martin. He drinks him in. It _hurts,_ because it feels impossible. He is realizing more with each second how bad he wants for this to be real: Martin’s faded green coat, the little mole under his left eye, his windswept hair. After more than a year of absence, of heads down in the corridors, tense exchanges where too much was said in nothing, this is like the first day after a famine. 

“Hello, Martin.” Jon exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “It’s good to see you again.” 

Martin smiles. It wavers, but it’s a smile. And Jon knows, _knows,_ beyond what any fear or entity could possibly tell him, that what he wants is to see Martin smile again.

“Let’s keep going,” Jon says. 

“Where to?” Martin asks.

Jon’s thoughts echo the words: _Where is there to go from here?_

“I think I know a place.” 

**2\. as a thank you**

“There we go,” Martin says, dusting off his hands after they finish stowing their things into the overhead racks. Their belongings look terrifyingly small all packed away into a suitcase and backpack each, the meager remnants of a life more worth leaving than not. 

“Which seat do you prefer?” Jon asks.

“Window, I think,” Martin replies. 

This is the longest Jon’s been away from the Archives, or at least Archives business, in recent memory. Whenever his mind dwells on Basira or Daisy, he feels it settle on his spine like a block of iron. Just from one phone call, he knows Basira’s in a bad place. He’d heard her voice, thick with choked-off tears, trying desperately to keep on being brisk and business-like. 

Jon knows it’s better that they’re here, away from the investigations and the police and Elias, but that doesn’t make it any less a fleeing. He just wants to help, somehow. Do _something._ After all, too much of this mess is his fault. He can never really leave it behind, even if possible. 

For the train, Jon has brought along a dogeared copy of _A Wizard of Earthsea_ he’d devoured as a kid. The book is almost as engrossing as he remembers, but he still finds his gaze drifting to Martin, who has been sitting and looking out the window for most of the ride so far, the dawning orange light glinting off his glasses. 

After a bit, he nudges Martin, who turns to him with an unreadable expression. “Have you eaten?”

“Not really,” Martin admits. “Haven’t been hungry.”

“I think they serve breakfast soon. Have some tea, at least.”

“You never told me you’ve got a nagging grandmother living in there,” Martin says, tapping Jon’s temple with a finger. 

“Being raised by one will do that to you,” Jon says gravely.

“Don’t tell me you like Weetabix.”

“It’s good with apricot jam,” Jon says, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Oh my god,” Martin says, his voice all curved and warm. “I can’t believe I’ve actually had a massive crush on someone’s granny.” 

Jon stares at the seat ahead of him. His line of action regarding his feelings for Martin thus far has just been suppression and studious ignorance—he’s not the sort to confront internal things until it’s too late, as has been shown to fail spectacularly in the past, and he hadn't wanted to bring anything up now when Martin hasn’t had even a day’s rest. Although that might be stupid, now that he thinks about it, with the whole finding Martin in the Lonely and _look at me and tell me what you see_ thing. 

In any case, Jon doesn’t really know how to respond to Martin’s remark, but it does make his stomach twist into knots. The good kind, like on a sailboat, or soft pretzels.

Martin says, wide-eyed, “Sorry. I know this isn’t the time. It just came out. I mean, I guess I did say that thing about lo—um. We _are_ about to live together, so it might make things—and it’s okay if you don’t—”

“Martin,” Jon says gently. “I found you. In there.”

Jon sees Martin let out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, you did.” 

Jon takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s so precious, the soft pad of his thumb, his bitten nails, the turn of his wrist. “We don’t have to talk about it all now. But I- I am— I feel it. I’m on the same page.” 

It’s a relief to say it out loud. Jon hasn’t been involved with anyone since Georgie, barring a couple disastrous blind dates that left the other party either annoyed or confused. The creaky machinery of his body isn’t used to these motions. He’s not all that sure how it happened, to be honest. He’s a long ways from the Jon who dismissed statements hither and yon or trained a suspicious eye on his assistants’ every move. But he’s not yet far enough from the Jon who lives in nightmares, who pulls things out of people, thrives off of it.

He just needs to focus on keeping them safe. He needs to savor this. Because even as it’s just beginning, he can’t help feeling like they’re perched on a precipice waiting to be pushed over. He can’t keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Okay,” Martin says. He intertwines his fingers with Jon’s. “That’s good to know.” 

-

They arrive in Plockton as night is falling. After stopping for some groceries and a trek that leaves Jon more winded than he’d like to admit, they reach the house. It’s a little two-story affair nestled right next to the shore, the picture of highland charm with its all-white exterior and grey shingled roof.

“I kind of thought it’d be covered with blood or teeth or something,” Martin says, dropping his bags in the doorway. 

Jon flicks on the light and surveys the living room. It’s sparsely furnished but cozy enough. There’s a plush velvet armchair in the corner. A fireplace with an empty mantle. Underfoot lies a red ornamental rug. A thin film of dust coats every surface. 

Jon catches a view of the sea through the wood-paneled windows. It’s quaint. It’s nice _._ Not exactly a place he’d expect for Daisy, but if anything, she’s revealed that she’s not all bite. “Supposedly, there’s a knitting workshop around here.”

Martin raises his eyebrows. “How’d you know I like to knit?”

“You’ve mentioned it a couple times,” Jon says. “ _Now_ who’s the gran?” 

“I knew you wouldn’t let that go,” Martin says, but he sounds pleased. 

Jon walks inside slowly whilst scanning the floor and ceiling. He doesn’t put it past Daisy to have some unusual security measures in place. But there’s no trip wire, no sirens. Just quiet, the humming of the light, the wind from outside the door. 

They check out the rest of the house, following each other in and out of the rooms. He finds an old portable radio on a windowsill. Seems like Daisy couldn’t risk missing the Archers, even here. The kitchen is stocked with a couple pots and pans, some rusting badly. But the stove works, the oven just needs a good clean, and they’ve got plenty of pasta and beans to tide them over. _Waking up, eating breakfast with Martin, talking over coffee._ Jon allows himself to imagine it for a second. 

Then, they head up a set of dangerously creaky stairs to check out the upper floor. _Well, at least they’ll be informed if someone’s coming up to kill them._ Jon pushes open the door to reveal the bedroom and stops in his tracks. It has the same white walls. Against one side is a queen-sized bed with a flowered bedspread and a small nightstand at its side. There is nothing else; it’s bare-bones.

“So,” Martin says, tapping a nervous pattern on the doorframe. “I guess we’ll take turns?”

“Sure,” Jon says faintly. “Or.”

“Or,” Martin repeats.

“There’s room for both of us. If you want to.” _Is this too much? Too fast?_ Jon almost wants to laugh. It’s pretty absurd that he can still be worried about this kind of thing when they’re literally on the run, but he welcomes the chance to be anxious about this and not a life-or-death situation.

“Yes. Yes, um, I would be okay with that. Just maybe not tonight, though.” 

“Alright,” Jon says, smiling. He reaches an arm out tentatively and Martin moves towards him. Jon slips an arm around Martin’s waist and rests his head in the crook of his neck. He’s warm and right. 

“Is it weird that I’m happy right now?” Martin asks. “Like, I’ve just come out of this awful place. I don’t feel...normal, or like my old self. The Archives are a crime scene. Nothing’s right. But it’s just. Here. With you. It’s...” He breaks off. Jon shuts his eyes.

“I know what you mean. But it’s not your fault, the things that happened.”

“Neither is it yours,” Martin says, his tone uncharacteristically stern. 

“That’s just patently untrue.” 

“Jon. You didn’t sign up for this.”

“But I’ve done things that I can’t take back,” Jon says. He can’t bear to open his eyes, see the way he knows Martin is looking at him. “I hurt people. I don’t want pity, but it— it doesn’t cancel out very easily.”

“But you realize that. And you’re trying to move forward and not repeat the same mistakes. It’s more than a lot of people can say.”

“How...how do you see me like this?” 

“Because I trust you, Jon. And you trusted me.”

“Trust. I _trust_ you.”

“See? Like that. Just like that.”

Jon opens his eyes. He catches Martin’s gaze, and it hits him all over again. What he’s lost and what he’s gaining. He leans into Martin, breathes him in, fingers clutching at the soft wool of his jumper. He looks at the bedroom. Their room. 

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says. 

**3\. from very far away**

Jon wakes up to the sound of a kettle. Light is streaming in through the curtains and his surroundings are flooded with a honeyed glow. For a couple seconds he thrashes about, frantically trying to make sense of the unfamiliar room he’s found himself in. _We never made it out the Lonely. I lost him. I’m in some incomprehensible maze_ _somewhere, and Martin—_

“Jon? Did I wake you?” Martin comes into the living room, spatula in hand, and stands over the sofa curiously. And then Jon remembers: Scotland, safehouse, _Martin_. 

“Good morning,” Jon says, dragging a hand across his face and blinking against the morning light. The relief is tangible in his voice. He’d insisted on taking the couch last night and Martin had finally given in after he threatened to sleep on the floor if Martin slept on the couch, so in a roundabout way it worked out. He hadn’t been able to sleep until late though, kept tossing and turning, and he must look awful.

“I’m making breakfast. Eggs and toast, if you want any. I was up early. You should keep resting if you can,” Martin says. He has the same marks of sleeplessness, a weariness down to the core. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be up in a minute,” Jon says. Looking up at Martin, who’s got that set to his mouth that indicates he’s determined to be optimistic, who’s peering down at Jon with the softest eyes, Jon is filled with an incredible fondness. 

“Scrambled is fine?”

“Scrambled is perfect.” 

After Martin leaves the room, Jon throws off his blankets and stretches. They’ve yet to unpack so he digs around in his suitcase for a clean shirt and trousers. Whilst brushing his teeth in the bathroom, he stops to peer at his reflection in the mirror. It’s been so long since Jon has really looked at himself. His hair is nearly shoulder-length now and streaked through with grey. His pock-marked face, its sharp angles. He can’t remember the last time he’s shaved. If he stands at a distance, he hardly recognizes himself. All over his body are reminders of everything that happened over the past few years. He pulls his hair back into a pony and sighs. 

The kitchen smells amazing, and Jon says so to Martin, who beams. Jon isn’t the best cook, mainly skilled at a handful of recipes he’d found of his mom’s and a whole lot of ready meals and instant noodles. It’s been the latter for a long while now. 

They sit at the tiny kitchen table. Jon pours them each hot water and carefully mixes in spoonfuls of instant coffee. 

Martin takes a sip and makes a face. “This should be illegal.” He takes another sip. 

“We should probably lie low for a couple days, but we’ll go into town for some more supplies soon. ” 

“And you’re going to that knitting place with me.”

“I—”

“You are going to learn so much about wool,” Martin says firmly. “Things you never knew could exist.” 

“I’m sure,” Jon says, trying to keep his tone dry but he can’t help sounding smitten. 

“Is there a plan for today?”

“I don’t know. I guess...there’s not really any work to do right now.” Jon turns the idea over in his head. For a day, not thinking about stopping an apocalyptic ritual or guarding against attack or feeding on regurgitated misery. Strange how twisted his sense of normalcy has become that this feels profoundly unnatural. But he supposes he’s never really known the difference between the ordinary and extraordinary.

“We could walk along the shore,” Martin offers. “The weather’s nice today.” 

“I’ve always liked the beach,” Jon says. “I used to make homes for the crabs. As a child, of course.” The better part of Jon’s few contented memories from Bournemouth feature him squinting to read a paperback under the blazing sun, terrorizing seagulls, and judiciously avoiding any older children on the sand.

Martin’s eyes light up. “Do elaborate.” 

“I hadn’t yet realized that creating moats in the sand is not an ideal structure for protecting crabs. In fact, I later discovered they are capable of much more than I had previously thought. Did you know that hermit crabs can form vacancy chains in order to find new shells? They’ll find a shell and examine it. Soon, a group of them will gather, and each will vacate their old shells and leave one behind for another. It’s a rather sophisticated system—what?” 

Martin is unsuccessfully choking back gasps of laughter. “No—nothing. Keep going. Please don’t stop on my account.”

“Is there something wrong?”

" _No._ Please, just keep talking about crabs.” Martin takes a frantic gulp of coffee, looking up from the rim of his mug to Jon. 

“You know what, we can talk about something else if this isn’t—”

“No, no, I’m sorry for laughing, it’s just—I love hearing this. Seeing this side of you. It just makes me so happy.” Martin sets down the mug and looks at Jon, expression suddenly solemn.

Jon tries to keep all the things in his chest from tumbling out in an ungraceful heap. “Well, I—I’m glad. I want you to be happy.” _More than anything._

“I know,” Martin says. Jon sees a crease form in his brow, his shoulders slumping a little. “I just want it to last a little longer.”

“It _will,_ ” Jon says, the words jumping out of his throat with more fire behind them than he’d expected. 

He knows it’s a lie, an appeasement, or worse, a foolish hope. But he needs to believe this right now—if not for himself, then for Martin—or he’s not going to be able to believe anything. He needs to trust himself, hoping foolishly or not. 

-

They spend the rest of the morning unpacking in the bedroom. Jon shakes his head, smiling, at Martin’s ceramic animal figurines and ABBA vinyls (“ _we don’t even have a record player!” “_ Arrival _defies material limitations”)._ Martin teases him relentlessly for a ratty Black Sabbath T-shirt he uses as pajamas (“ _you’re_ never _seeing photos of me in uni_ ” “ _is that a challenge?_ ”). 

It’s strange **,** Jon thinks, how easily he’s able to slip into this sort of domesticity. He could see himself doing this forever, arguing with Martin about the merits of Mary Oliver. It’s also fulfilling to have a task to execute and something to occupy his hands. And when they’re all done, they stand back and regard the result. The bedroom, although still leaning towards the minimalist, is less austere with their battered books on the nightstand and their prints and postcards tacked to the walls at odd angles. 

“It’s almost homey, isn’t it?” Martin says. 

Jon isn’t sure why it’s seeing their clothes laying side-by-side that does it, but the next thing he knows he’s unable to breathe.

“Jon? Jon!” Martin is at his side immediately. He touches Jon’s arm, but it’s felt as if through a layer of clingfilm. “What happened? Are you alright?” 

Jon sits down on the bed, blinking rapidly. The room comes back to him in fits and starts, his vision like a funhouse mirror. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Martin kneeling on the floor, cursing at his phone. 

“I-I’m not getting reception, but Jon, I’m right here. I’m here. Please, breathe.” 

“I’m...fine,” he finally gets out. “Stop—it’s-it’s fine.”

It’s not fine. It’s not _fair_. Of course it’s not fair. He knows that. But knowing something doesn’t mean that it isn’t unbearable. As a matter of fact, knowing only makes it that much worse as all rationality fails you, even when you run through the facts over and over again. 

It’s not fair that in another world, he could have this without any strings attached. He could live in a little house on the shore with the man he loves. They could have shirts in the same drawer and it wouldn’t be a big deal; it would just be. 

Jon has never been one for self-pity—he’s found it wholly unhelpful in actually dealing with anything—but this is different. It’s like being given the greatest gift in the world only to be shocked awake, then falling back into that lovely dream again, a ceaseless cycle that never fails to draw out the same old longing. Perhaps he’d prefer being awake forever; he could get used to the dark ceiling, make peace with the cold bed. 

“Jon. Look at me.” Martin puts his hands on Jon’s face, his thumb stroking his rough jaw. Jon can smell the lingering scent of coffee on Martin’s sweater. There’s a sob burning in him somewhere that doesn’t know how to make its way out.

Martin’s arms curl around his neck and Jon buries his head in Martin’s shoulder, screwing his eyes shut. He breathes.

-

Even for a sunny day the temperature can’t be over twelve degrees, and Jon is thoroughly grateful for the scarf wrapped around his throat. It’s Martin’s, presumably another knitting project of his. He focuses on it; it brings him balance. He watches a boat move steadily across the water. 

Martin wandered off earlier. As soon as they’d arrived at the shore his expression had become blank and distant. Jon could see it, even behind the encouraging smile Martin had given him, urging Jon to go on ahead, he’d catch up later. Now he's just a small figure dotted against the vast blue sky and sea. 

The day is crisp and alive on Jon's skin. He makes note of the pebbles underfoot and the clouds dappling the sky. He stuffs his hands in his coat pockets, breath fogging up his glasses, and makes his way towards Martin.

“Good lord,” Jon says once he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Martin. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be outdoors.” 

“Hm. Yeah.” Martin’s voice is almost lost in the wind.

“Are-are you alright?” Again, the words feel painfully inadequate. 

“Yeah.”

“Martin—” 

“It just reminds me...of it.”

Jon glances at him. “The Lonely.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, his voice scratchy. He looks to the sea, that boat skimming the surface, a white speck on the horizon, buoyed by the waves.

“Yeah, well. Nothing to do about that now. Just got to keep on with it, you know?” Martin laughs, an unconvincing shadow of his real one. 

“Do you feel...better? Now that Lukas is gone?”

“Yes. I mean, I feel much better than when I was actually _in_ the Lonely, and when he was just there all the time, watching, making sure I was being...obedient. But—” Martin hesitates. “I don’t know. I don’t _know._ It’s like, when I see this, and other things, I’m suddenly so afraid that I’m back there again. When it felt like nothing would ever get better. When I didn’t really want it to.” 

“Oh, Martin,” Jon says softly. 

They’re hardly centimeters apart but Martin seems so faraway. Jon wants to reach out and bring him back to him, hold him close until they’re both whole again.

Martin’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “I’m just—I want to _help_. I don’t want to keep moping around, like something that needs protecting.”

“You _have_ helped. But that isn’t the only thing that…that counts. You’re more than that, than what you give to others.”

“I just don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to get rid of it,” Martin whispers. 

“Then I’ll help you live with it,” Jon says, willing it to sound like certainty, like fate. 

“This isn’t your weight to carry.”

“I’ll make it mine.” 

“You know I can’t let you do that.” 

Martin turns away from him and starts on the walk back. 

-

They pass the next few days in a lot of silence. It’s not all bad. They still eat breakfast together, and it’s difficult to really avoid each other in such close quarters. They go into town and finally pick up some tea that doesn’t make Martin wrinkle his nose. They don’t return to the shore.

Martin doesn’t look like he’s been getting any sleep; Jon notices dark bruises under his eyes and he hears footsteps from upstairs late at night. Jon wrestles with what to do. He knows he should give Martin space, let him come to him on his own terms. But he worries that if he leaves Martin to his own thoughts for too long, doesn’t show him he _is_ here, things will only deteriorate.

Jon ends up trying to lend as much support as he can without intruding: making Martin tea, listening to him read Byron without too much negative input (this is slightly selfish too, because Jon really likes Martin’s voice), feebly attempting to make pancakes (a couple turn out spectacularly burnt, but Martin finishes the plate and gives him a thumbs up with only a trace of discomfort, which makes it worth it). 

And the thing is, Martin always puts on the brave face and changes the subject. Jon doesn’t understand how he can Know things but when it comes to this, when it really counts, he has no idea how to help or what to do. It’s not like he can reach in with a scalpel and dig out some ghost bullet and ta-da, problem solved. Although he supposes Melanie is still far from healed from her less corporeal wounds. Not to mention Basira and Daisy...Jon has no idea how either of them have been holding up; communication with the Institute has been haphazard at best with the shoddy signal and general chaos.

He enjoys being able to take care of Martin for a change. There’s no small part of him that regrets how little he’s done this in the past. He wants to make up for lost time. Jon tells himself not to focus on his own mangled guilt; he needs to just be there for Martin right now. If it’s also a form of atonement...he’s not sure how to change that. 

It’s bizarre how when your entire life is uprooted, all you can do is keep going. Keep moving forward, keep plodding ahead in time, keep dealing with things as they come. It’s a worthy lesson. Jon just wishes it hadn’t taken so much loss to learn it. 

**4\. with no space left between us**

Jon has kept taking the couch. 

As he tries and fails to go to sleep, his thoughts go to the months before. How when he’d woken up to see the empty chair at his bedside, he’d thought, _where’s_ _Martin?_ How the panic had set in so fast and sharp when Basira told him Martin was working with Peter. How Martin’s absence had stretched like drips of sap from a gnarled tree until one afternoon, sitting at his desk, Jon could think of nothing else. He needed to see him.

But talking to Martin was painful, too. It had made him remember all the times he had poked a head into Jon’s office, asking him how things were and reminding him to go grab a bite to eat. It made him remember how he’d dismissed Martin because he didn’t want to get tangled up in something messy, afraid of his own feelings, afraid of himself, afraid for Martin. 

Jon turns the memories over in his mind in nauseous circles. He wishes he could go back to the beginning and shake himself, tell that Jon to appreciate it while he still can.

It had taken everything in Jon not to go to Lukas and demand an answer, make him say exactly what he was up to. But he’d promised he wouldn’t fall down the rabbit hole of skepticism again. He wanted to trust Martin. 

And now, on the other side of things, he still isn’t sure if he made the right decision. Was it right to let Martin sacrifice himself, even if it was on his terms? What if Jon didn’t care about preventing the end of the world if it meant _that_ , the not-looking and the huge, infinite space in between? 

It’s selfish. They’ve all been marked, even before Peter. But Jon can’t help parsing through the scenarios there under the cover of night when there’s nothing else to distract him, nothing to see but his mind’s eye passing over him as the hours go by.

He’s walking back down this mental hallway when he starts at the sound of footsteps from overhead. He cranes his neck. “Martin?”

He hears the stairs creak as Martin comes down the steps to stand before Jon. From what Jon can make out in the grainy darkness, he’s wrapped in a blanket and his face is smeared with exhaustion. His hair is mussed. 

Jon sits up and gathers up his own blankets to make room. “Come here.”

“Sorry to wake you,” Martin mutters, sitting down heavily. “It’s stupid.” 

Jon turns, back against the armrest so he’s facing Martin. He spreads his blanket so it’s covering both of their laps. He feels for Martin’s hand and brings it to him, pressing a gentle kiss to his palm. Martin makes a quiet, surprised noise. “Was it a nightmare?”

“I guess,” Martin says. He leans into Jon’s chest with a sigh, his hair tickling Jon’s chin. “The same old.” He sounds so weary; Jon aches. 

“Did you get them before, too?” 

“I guess. It wasn’t this bad though.” Martin laughs ruefully. “This was like...it was just like going back in time. It was easy.” 

Jon loops his arms around Martin’s chest and pulls him closer. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t think so,” Martin says. “Just being here is...is good.” 

“I dream too,” Jon says after a moment. “Suppose it’s only fair, with how I’ve been trespassing into other people’s sleep. There’s a lot of...skin. And...” _Tim. Sasha. Or the thing that pretended to be her, anyways._ Their names stick to his mouth. He clears his throat. “You should sleep here for the night if you’re more comfortable here.” 

“You can take the bed then,” Martin says. Jon can feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest against his. He feels Martin’s heartbeat under his palm.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jon says. 

“Um. Well, there’s always…” 

“Oh. _Oh._ Yes.” 

“Yeah.”

“You’re okay with it.”

“Yes. As long as you are.”

“I...yes. I am.” Jon swallows. 

“Right. Then…” Martin takes his hand and Jon leads them up the stairs. Outside the window is the moon, full and heavy above the sea. The light filtering in makes wavering shapes on the walls.

Jon’s heart thumps loudly in his ears as they climb into bed and he pulls up covers. Martin is wearing flannel pajamas and Jon can’t help thinking how adorable he looks. He turns onto his side to face Martin, extremely aware of his presence beside him. He mentally traces the contours of Martin’s face. His forehead now smooth. His hand curled up to the pillow. His eyes, looking at Jon in a way no one’s really looked at him before.

Martin says at last, “I was checking to see if you were still here.” And Jon breaks in so many places he can’t keep count. 

“I’m here,” Jon says. “I’m here. I will always—” He doesn’t want to lie, but this doesn’t feel like one. He will make it true. “I’m always going to be here.” 

“I’ve been thinking,” Martin says after another long silence. “About everything.” 

“Everything? Have you been researching tarantulas again? Because I just don’t think I can tolerate those things in the house.” Jon grins into the darkness as Martin pokes him not entirely gently in the ribs. “Sorry, sorry. Go on.”

“I want things to be different. So I’m deciding, now. They’re going to be different,” Martin says, his voice brimming with resolution. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I just—” Martin inhales sharply. “I was thinking about what you said. About the weight, blah blah blah. Pretty poetic turn of phrase for a man who professes to despise the medium, if I do say so myself. The Jon doth protest too much, methinks.” 

“I don’t _despise—_ not the point. Keep going.” 

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist. But anyways, yeah, the weight, the burden, whatever. I think I’m just...used to holding it on my own? Like with my mum.” Martin is quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be a martyr or anything. But sometimes it’s easier to just let it bury you.” 

“I...I get that. Yes.” 

“But I want to try, with you. To share it. That is, if you still want—”

“ _I_ _do_. Of course.”

Martin laughs softly. “Right. Okay then. That’s a start.” 

“I mean it.” Jon moves closer so their noses touch. It’s so quiet. He can feel everything: their breaths in sync, their legs brushing, their hearts beating. “Because I love you.”

He says it because it’s the truth. Lately, he doesn’t seem capable of telling anything but. There’s a split-second where Martin freezes and Jon is suddenly made of doubt, kicking himself for springing this so suddenly and bringing his own enormous feelings into the mix at a vulnerable moment for Martin. 

He’s opening his mouth to babble some convoluted explanation when Martin closes the gap and kisses him. It’s tentative and sweet and in that holy ground between them, the night fades away.

Martin takes an uneven breath. “I love you. I always have.” 

Jon smiles against Martin’s mouth. “ _Our_ bloody burden.”

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” Martin murmurs, but Jon knows the smile in his voice. 

“You should be used to it by now,” Jon says. He kisses Martin’s forehead. 

He isn’t sure when they fall asleep. But when they wake up and they’re both still here, alive and together, Jon feels like he’s learned a new name for joy.

**5\. as we huddle together, the storm raging outside**

A couple days later after dinner, they bundle up, put out a blanket, and lie down to look at the stars. Unburdened by the pollution of the city, the view is clearer than he’s seen since childhood. There are so many stars, more than he’d ever thought. Watching those pinpricks in the distance, reminders of his own relative smallness. Taking Martin’s hand. It helps.

Martin asks, “How are you feeling?” 

Jon thinks. “I’m alright.”

“There’s that famous verbosity I love so much.” Love. They’ve been using that word a lot more now. 

“Mm.” Jon struggles. There doesn’t seem to be anything he can say that is able to encapsulate the past few weeks. Heavy and effortless. Melancholy and joyful. Confined and free. All that comes to mind are contradictions. “I feel...like I have a kind of hope but I’m trying not to think about it too much.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels dangerous.” 

“It’s _not_.” 

Jon is startled at the fierceness with which Martin speaks. “What?” 

“It’s not dangerous. It can’t be.” 

“We’ll only be let down if we expect too much.” 

“I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt,” Martin says. “I mean, I pined over you for _years_ , and yeah, it sucked sometimes, but it also got me through a lot.” 

Jon winces. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I needed something to hold on to. Everyone does. You’re-you’re not getting all doom-and-gloom on me right now.” Martin squeezes his hand. “We’ve got a lot ahead of us. We have to believe it.” 

“Yeah,” Jon breathes. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“Yep,” Martin says, with just the right amount of primness that a laugh escapes from Jon.

“I’m just really glad you’re here," Jon says into Martin's hair. 

“I’m really proud of you, Jon.”

“What for?” 

“You’ve changed, you know. And not for the worse.” 

“Mm.” Jon wants to be convinced but it still hurts. It’s an old hurt. He’s living with it. 

“You need to stop that,” Martin says, with that firm kindness that Jon’s come to admire so much. “Just as I can’t change what happened with the Lonely, you can’t change what happened with the Eye. All we can do is keep on living and trying to be—to be good.” 

“What if there’s no good choices? What if it’s just all bad?” Jon asks like a child at confession, scared of the answer, demanding one nonetheless. There’s so much of him that’s exhausted. Tired of thinking about all the ways he’s failed, tired of fighting to be himself again.

“There are. There are good choices. That’s all there is,” Martin says. He presses a kiss to Jon’s cheek. 

Jon nods. _You’re one of mine._ He reminds himself again: _Hope. Not the dangerous kind. A thing they can carry together._ He shuts his eyes, opens them, the stars winking in and out of view. 

Jon looks at Martin, who smiles. He smiles, too. “I think I’m starting to get it.”

**Author's Note:**

> i love love so much.. 
> 
> thanks for reading!!


End file.
